


a fate worse than dying

by ssolaris



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Novelization, Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Whump, and so i wanted to capture that in this miserable oneshot :), dream is batshit crazy lol, hahaha, hmmm still kinda processing today, let tommy rest, my own interpretation, that stream was brutal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssolaris/pseuds/ssolaris
Summary: “I couldn’t stop him, Will,” Tommy hiccups, entirely nothing but a speck of dust at the universe’s mercy. “I’m sorry.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 1
Kudos: 131





	a fate worse than dying

**Author's Note:**

> :)

The desperation runs through him so deeply, so intensely, he can’t even afford to feel ashamed for it. He tries to put up with it, he tries to pass the time, make the most of it, just deal with it because he knows he doesn’t have any other choice, but it’s screwing with his head.

This is worse than being exiled. At least then, he’d had the liberty to scavenge for seclusion, to try and build anew, to escape when he needed it most. The liberty to breathe in fresh air, nestle into his cot at night, and stand at the edge of the ocean just to feel the water pooling around his ankles. He yearns for that kind of freedom, now. Anything but these black walls, anything but the endless stream of lava that burns him when he stands too close.

Anything but Dream.

Dream tries to act normal, gracious, and it infuriates Tommy. He keeps telling him, _this is good, this is a good thing, now I have company,_ and Tommy tries to ignore the inkling of guilt he feels whenever Dream says something like that. It is so fucking hard to remind himself that Dream isn’t his friend, was never his friend—just a liar, and a killer. A villain.

At least in exile, he got to run away and he got to have some taste of freedom, some half-baked belief that things could still be fixed. _The portal was right there. Look, today Ranboo was visiting. Today Dream helped Tommy set up a beach party, and everyone was going to visit, and everything was going to be okay._

(It wasn’t okay, and nobody visited, and Dream was the only person who was there for him.)

No, no, no, he can’t go back to that place. He can’t go back to thinking like that.

He needs to get _out._

“Sam!” he cries, and he cries and he cries until his throat is raw and he’s winded, and Sam isn’t responding anymore; Tommy is stuck in here with Dream and there’s no end in sight. Sam will not save him, nor will anyone else.

Tommy starts pacing because he cannot afford to stare at the wall of lava anymore, and feel the way its cinders scrape his bare skin and know, indefinitely, that there is nobody awaiting him on the other side. And Dream keeps approaching him, like he wants to placate him, appeal to him, and he hates it.

“Hear me out,” Dream says, like they’re old friends joking around. “What if we get out together?”

But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Dream is bad. Dream will hurt him like he always has. Dream will hurt Tubbo. Dream will hurt his friends.

Tommy thinks of a vacant beach and an untouched cake, and he thinks of explosions and holes in the ground, and he thinks of Dream, unbelievably enraged, intoxicated with power, screaming at him.

No, no, no, this is just more of that same manipulation. It’s _bullshit._

Dream, even now, even when Tommy can see him starting to shake with that same rage, the same rage he knows the man is very capable of, keeps trying to calm him down. _At least we have each other to talk to,_ he tells him. _At least we can keep each other company._

But Tommy can’t take the lies anymore. “Dream—Dream. You don’t have me. You will never have me—we don’t have each other,” he seethes, and he speaks very clearly and deliberately, because the line needs to be drawn. “You’re a fucking _nobody,_ and when I leave this place, you won’t. Techno won’t come for you.”

Dream remains fixated on him, and he hates that he still has that fucking mask on. Tommy wishes he could see the look on his face.

If Dream is angry right now, then Tommy feels that tenfold. He wants to put Dream in his goddamn place for once. He doesn’t care how childish he sounds. “You’re a fucking asshole, you’re deluded—you’re delusional. I fucking _hate_ you.”

But there is nothing, no reaction.

“Okay,” Dream says, simple and curt and unfazed. “But I have something Techno wants.”

“What does that even—!” He’s sick of it, sick of the lies, the games, he’s so fucking—he starts shoving Dream, and Dream retaliates, pushing him back. Tommy can feel the strength in Dream’s hands, the raw power he possesses, the way he wrangles his own arms from him and pushes him into the wall like he’s nothing. Tommy wrenches himself away.

“I’m going to get out,” Dream insists, like a broken record. _Shut the fuck up._ “And when I do, I’ll get revenge. The thing is, Tommy—even when I’m in here, I’m more powerful than you are.”

“Dream, look at me,” he snarls. Tommy feels feral and spiteful and he wants to stomp on that stupid mask. “Stop fucking talking, for once in your self-obsessed life—”

“ _Says you!_ ”

“Are you going to _listen_ to me?!” he screams, even when Dream starts forward again and shoves him backward, ramming a fist into his face. Tommy drives him away and takes a step back, and he wipes the blood from his newly split lip. _Doesn’t even hurt. Let’s go, motherfucker._ _I can take you on._

As though humoring him, Dream decides to abide and give him some space. Somehow that makes him even angrier. Tommy can feel the hatred rolling through his blood vessels and tearing up his insides, setting him ablaze. He wants to show the fucker that he’s capable, that he’ll stand up to him, that he’s not the same coward he was back in exile.

“Dream, listen. If I wanted to, right now, I could just kill you. The only reason I won’t is because my friends—because we need that revival book. Alright? That’s the only reason.” He starts pacing, moving towards the lava again. “The only fucking reason.”

From behind him, he hears Dream scoff, and it makes his blood boil. He turns briskly to face him again, but suddenly Dream is so much taller, and suddenly Dream has a whole different energy to him.

Dream grabs Tommy’s shoulders and throws him backwards, towards the lava. Tommy stumbles, overwhelmed by his strength. “I am never,” Dream starts, before shoving him again, “ _never_ going to use that book on you.” He shoves again. “I will _never_ use it to save you or any of your friends.”

The heat from the lava tapers off further into the cell, but Tommy’s now close enough that he can feel it itching at his back, hungry to devour him. The thick stench of sulfur fills his nostrils and makes him cough on dry air, as he does nothing but glare at Dream. He feels like he’s short-circuiting from how fast his heart is beating, how much he feels on the verge of losing control entirely.

“So kill me,” Dream says, then, a light proposal. He throws his arms up in a careless shrug and Tommy can sense the smile in his voice, the way Dream enjoys every second of this. Sadistic. Evil. “Come on, do it.”

Tommy stares at him, and he feels the anger deep in his bones, and the heat on his back, and the expectant look Dream returns to him. Part of him just wants to kill him just to kill him, because he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He’ll never see Dream like this again, so vulnerable, so ready for death. Tommy could take him—Tommy could—just because Dream’s tougher, doesn’t mean they aren’t—

_They’re on equal ground._ They’re… equals in here. Dream holds nothing over him, even though Tommy doesn’t either. They’re both just two animalistic, enraged, sad people with nothing but white knuckles and rage behind their gritted teeth. Dream has nothing, and he’s just grasping at fucking straws.

So Tommy can’t help but laugh, when he realizes this. And he revels in the way Dream loses some of his composure, as though he hadn’t expected that response.

“This is,” Tommy stammers, running a hand through his wild hair, “this isn’t worse than exile. This isn’t worse than _exile._ Because the thing is, back then, I thought you had all the power. I thought you were dangling me like a little puppet. And even though I’m claustrophobic and I’m smaller than you and I _hate_ this—here’s the thing, Dream. The revival book isn’t real, is it? It isn’t fucking real. Because all you do is—”

“Tommy,” Dream tries to cut in, but Tommy doesn’t let him. Dream doesn’t have the fucking power anymore. He’s going to seize it by force.

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” he bellows, and he lands a punch at Dream’s cheekbone and it sends his mask askew, revealing half of his face. Those unhinged green eyes. They’re sickening. But at least Dream clamps his mouth shut for once—Tommy can now see him clenching his jaw, tight-lipped. “All you do is fucking _lie_ to me! You are a clinical manipulator. You’re a _psychopath._ You’re just-! You lie, you always lie, I know the book isn’t real.”

Dream looks beyond done, now. And Tommy knows this, transparently, because he can see the raging fire in his one visible eye. “Tommy, every time I talk to you, you’re so fucking disrespectful,” and he hits him again, in the shoulder, “and you act like a little bitch,” again, on his cheek, “and you complain,” again, “and you accuse me of things,” again, “you accuse me of being a _liar,_ of being _manipulative._ ” One more hit, with finality, on the last word, as Dream throws his fist directly into Tommy’s face and he feels his nose splinter and fracture.

“Stop fucking punching me,” Tommy growls, but Dream isn’t listening anymore, that much he can tell. It’s a sort of depersonalizing, horrifying thing to realize, as his bones start to ache and he can feel warmth congealing in his nose and dripping from his nostril—that Dream is losing it.

“Tommy,” Dream snaps, raising his voice even more, as he slams Tommy against a wall and practically spits into his face, “ _I’m not fucking lying! Why would I lie?!_ ”

Tommy, to return the favor, spits back in his face. Red splatters against the pristine mask. Dream’s whole face has gone all red, and it makes Tommy crack a grin, even as his body groans in protest at the way Dream squeezes his arms and pushes him further back, leaving him entirely restrained and helpless.

“Because you’re a liar,” Tommy says, through his bleeding grin, because at least he’s still got his wit. “Through your netherite armor and your skin, I look at you, and you know what I see?”

Dream relinquishes one hand, just to punch his face again.

“I see a sad little man—”

He hits him again.

Tommy wheezes.

“—Insecure, that all of us have gotten so far ahead of him—”

Again.

The anger painted across Dream’s face gives him strength.

“—And his only little glimpse of power in this world is gone.”

Dream throws him against the floor, and Tommy’s vision spins as he tries to acclimate to the sudden shift in surroundings. It feels like his mind can’t really keep up with what’s going on anymore, but his mouth is still talking, and so he rolls with it, because he knows it makes Dream angrier.

Through bared teeth, as though bestial, Dream roars, “I might as well be a _god!_ ”

“You self-absorbed…” Tommy slurs, blinking his eyes up spitefully at the man, clinging stubbornly onto consciousness.

“No,” Dream says, trembling all over. “You can’t kill me, but I can kill you. And if you can’t kill me, doesn’t that make me some kind of god?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ignoring him, Dream kneels down, and he props Tommy up forcefully against the wall, even as he lays there, limp, barely able to keep his head up anyways. A strike to the side of his head makes his ear start to ring, sharp and loud. It feels like a needle is driving through his brain.

“I could kill you right now,” Tommy tells him, quietly, as something wet drips down his neck, “if I wanted to.”

Dream clicks his tongue and hits him again. Is his face still just red from anger, or is that blood? Is that Tommy’s blood? Why is— _why’s there so much?_

“But you can’t,” Dream says. The god says. “You won’t.”

When Dream moves to punch him once more, Tommy snags onto his wrist to stop him. His head is pounding but he just needs to focus. He’s not done yet. “L-Listen. You’re _lying._ The book isn’t real. I’m—I’m going to get out of here, and you’ll be stuck in here forever. Schlatt? He’s fucking _dead._ I’ve seen his grave! His corpse is there!”

Dream pauses for a moment, mulling that over, his expression dispassionate. Tommy thinks maybe he’s falling asleep or something, because everything looks gray now and it feels like he’s going to collapse.

“Alright,” Dream finally says, and there is nothing but pure cruelty in his eyes. His fists are caked in blood, his knuckles busted, and Tommy can hardly breathe through his broken nose. “Why don’t you go pay him a visit, then?”

“No,” Tommy groans, but it’s useless, Dream starts punching him again, harder, harder, and it’s like the whole world shakes every time his fist connects with his face. “ _No-!_ ” he half-sobs, but maybe everything’s silent now, deaf to his pleads, because Dream doesn’t listen and it keeps hurting and his vision is swimming.

Red melts into the gray and his ear won’t stop ringing. He feels scalding to the touch, bathed in some sort of warm liquid—is it the lava? Burning him alive? Maybe not. Maybe it’s the same red on Dream’s knuckles, on Dream’s mask.

“Stop it,” he gasps, and he can barely see anything anymore, just gray and red and Dream. “Stop it stop it stop it _stop it—_ ”

Dream brings both hands to both sides of Tommy’s head, and he pulls him forward slightly—and for a second, time stops. For a second, Tommy thinks, as though he’s about to go for a leisurely swim, _take a deep breath!_

Because the next second, Dream throws the back of his skull as hard as he can against the wall behind him, and then Tommy’s senses are flooded with the immense and unbearable feeling of cold.

Even so, he basks in it for a moment. It’s a nice reprieve from the agony thrashing around his face and body, the anger fueling his bloodstream. Everything is quiet and cold and empty and Dream isn’t here, Tommy is safe, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s going to get out of here.

But—why is it so cold?

Tommy sits up, and finds himself in a blank void, pure white, almost blinding. There’s a dull throb in the back of his head that persists, even though it seems like the rest of the pain is gone. It doesn’t go away, and tentatively, he grazes his fingers over the injury. He can’t see it, but he can feel the deep red staining his hair, dripping over his hands as he touches it.

He looks around and sees nothing but the blinding white, and he feels unsettled. Something—something isn’t right. Why is he here? Why is it so fucking cold? Why—?

“Tommy?”

When he turns to the sound of the voice, Tommy’s heart stops. Because bearing over him, as though he appeared from thin air, is Wilbur. Wilbur, with his intense face and deep frown, and his lanky build that just seems to tower over him.

But what is particularly strange is that this isn’t the Wilbur he’s become accustomed to lately. Because he doesn’t think this is that apparition, that shell of Wilbur that’s wandered the ruins of L’Manburg aimlessly for so long. No, this Wilbur’s voice is low and bitter, and this Wilbur is dressed in a brown trench coat, and those familiar, dark circles drag beneath his eyes. The exhaustion that comes with insanity, he presumes.

This is the Wilbur that died. This is the Wilbur that destroyed everything.

Tommy, speechless, brings his hand from his head to stare at his bloodied fingertips. His head still hurts. He can’t tell if Wilbur is frustrated or sad or maybe disappointed. Maybe it’s a mix of the three.

Because all Wilbur does is deepen his scowl as he scans Tommy’s face frantically, and he asks, barely a whisper, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Tears spill down Tommy’s face. He breathes in, out, and feels everything hit him at once like a ton of bricks. Wilbur’s expression softens; pondering and prodding and perhaps even loving.

“I couldn’t stop him, Will,” Tommy hiccups, entirely nothing but a speck of dust at the universe’s mercy. “I’m sorry.”


End file.
